


i'm coming home (though i never really left)

by sakura_freefall



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe- Reincarnation, Canon Era Beginning, E/R Games 2020, Enjoltaire- freeform, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Angst, Slice of Life, prompt: home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27344320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakura_freefall/pseuds/sakura_freefall
Summary: On June 6th, 1832, Enjolras and Grantaire die during the June Rebellion.On June 7th, 2019, Enjolras and Grantaire, boyfriends of over a year, are finishing up their semesters at the university.What's changed? Nothing and everything.(My work for the E/R Games 2020)
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship
Comments: 13
Kudos: 52
Collections: Enjoltaire Games 2020





	i'm coming home (though i never really left)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the 2020 E/R Games. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> I'll warn you that there are some references to American politics (projecting??? haha no why would you say that??) including a certain... orange man, so if that's a trigger for you, you may want to read something else.
> 
> Anyways, kudos and/or comments are always appreciated :)

_It's a funny thing, coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You've realized what's changed is you._

_-F. Scott Fitzgerald_

_June 6th, 1832_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Enjolras is afraid. He can't show it- not after everything he's lost, he _owes_ them for everything they gave up. It's not fair, it's not. But life isn't about what's fair or not, and he knows this far too well. How a summer's day can spill just as much blood as the harshest winter night. 

And right now, staring down the barrels of far too many guns, there are only two thoughts in his head. Paralyzing fear and crushing despair. Oh, there's anger, a tiny spark of anger, but it's the resigned kind, the kind that burns and festers and smoulders but never goes anywhere because there's nowhere for it to go.

He's never thought much about death, he'd always assumed that whatever they did would succeed, but now he knows how naive that notion was. Now that he thinks about it, he wonders what's next, wonders if there's anything at all. Wonders if in some other world far away, his friends are waiting. Or if there's nothing, only darkness and emptiness that's about to swallow him whole.

What does it matter? He's about to-

"Long live the republic! I'm one of them!" The voice sounds a little slurred, but steady and clear all the same. Enjolras recognizes the gruff, raspy tone. He recognizes the owner, too, even if he wishes he wouldn't.

 _Grantaire, what are you doing?_ he thinks to himself. _Are you out of your mind, they're going to hear you, they're going to-_

His thought process is cut off by a figure stumbling across the room, hair mussed, clothes wrinkled, bottle, for once, not in hand. Dark eyes that seem to suck him in, like a forest, or maybe a storm. Grantaire. Mocking, cynical, witty, brilliant, useless, irresponsible, beautiful, irreplacable Grantaire.

And he understands in an instant. Grantaire isn't in any sort of drunken stupor, or alcohol-induced delirium. His gaze is lucid, his eyes sharp but soft. Grantaire has come here to die. And as much as he hates himself for thinking it, much as he wishes Grantaire would've elected to save himself, he's glad to not be alone.

Grantaire looks up at him with an expression he can't quite figure out. It's like admiration, mixed with cameraderie, mixed with something else, something warm and heavy that cuts through his heart and straight into his soul. "Two at one shot, then," he calls, like he's mocking the guards in his own sort of defiance. He turns to Enjolras and asks, softer, "Do you permit it?" It's laced with a million separate questions all at once.

Enjolras doesn't trust himself to speak, so he reaches for the other man's hand, feels the warmth of human contact, trying to answer everything glittering in the cynic's eyes, and in spite of it all, he smiles.

And then there's nothing but noise and flashing light and pain, and the faint sound of somebody singing as he loses consciousness and the world melts into nothing.

_June 7th, 2019_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Enjolras wakes with a start, breathing heavily. He scrambles for a light, grabs at the covers, trying to shake the sleep from his mind. It's racing with fear and horror and pure, abject terror. The details of the dream are becoming oh-so-slightly fuzzy in his mind, but he can remember clearly the sound of gunfire, the smell of fresh blood, a red flag, and a hand- Grantaire's hand.

Grantaire. And suddenly his mind is only one word, _GrantaireGrantaireGrantaireGrantaireGrantaire,_ and he needs more than anything else to find him, make sure he's okay, because what if he's not okay, what if he's-

"'Pollo?" mutters a sleepy voice. "Whasgoinon?"

"Nightmare," he chokes out.

"Oh. Yeah, June's the season for them," he slurs. "Always- Always 'round this time o' year."

"Wait, what?" Enjolras asks, startled. "I- you've had them too?"

"Yeah, started 'bout two years back, ri' before we met," Grantaire continues. "'S always the same thing, every time. Always somethin' 'bout guns, and almost watching you die, and there's always, like, weird clothes. Waistcoats or some shit. Dunno, prob'ly Jehan would know."

"Strange," Enjolras responds, not quite wanting to talk about how strongly the dream had affected him, how _real_ it had seemed.

"Wha' was yours 'bout, Apollo? Don' tell me it was the orange man winning the 'lection nex'year." Enjolras almost laughs at the nickname they'd come up with for the stupid, incompetent politician.

"No, surprisingly, not this time. It was the same- or really similar, to yours. Guns, whatever-coats, you, lots of blood."

"Weird, man," he mumbles. "Tha's real weird. It's like- reincarnation shit, Apollo. Ferre prob'ly could figure it out, but, like, weird."

"Yeah, maybe," he says, feeling tired and hoping he can get a few more hours of (nightmare-free) sleep before university tomorrow.

The next morning, he wakes up with a strange feeling in the back of his mind, which he puts aside to the nightmare and lost sleep. He pulls on a red sweatshirt and jeans and lazily runs a finger through his shoulder-length hair before wordlessly making his way over to the coffee machine and punching in a cup of espresso roast.

"Woah, there, Apollo," says Grantaire, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "That stuff's gonna kill you, it's so strong."

"I could say the same thing about your affection for red wine," he retorts.

"Oh, shut up." He silences Enjolras with another kiss. "Drink your unholy bean juice and get your ass off to college. And don't get arrested, and you don't need to personally fight every person who wears a Trump hat-"

"Yes I do! It's my duty as a-"

"There's such thing as freedom of speech, Apollo, remember?"

"But still, silencing me would be restricting my own moral convictions-"

"Yes, but I'd rather not have to bail my boyfriend out of jail for the third time since we started dating!"

"Okay, the last time was a mistake, though. It doesn't count."

"Still!"

"Admit it! Admit defeat! It doesn't count!"

"Fine, fine, you've won! Now get your disgusting cup of ground beans and leave me in peace!"

"It's not really that bad, R, if you'd just try it-"

"Go!" he laughs, shooing Enjolras out the door.

That day he keeps his word to Grantaire- well, mostly anyways. He did pick a fight- a _verbal_ fight- with a guy in the year above him wearing a stupid "Make America Great Again"- the slogan made him want to vomit- shirt, which had ended in a few rude slurs directed towards him and Enjolras threatening to call security, even though said security would undoubtedly take the other boy's side. Nobody had gotten punched, stabbed, or arrested, though, which meant that he _technically_ had done what Grantaire asked of him.

Anyways, he's more than happy to leave the campus at the end of the day and make his way over to the cafe where the group had planned to get together for a one-week-left-of-semester party. Usually, the Cafe Musain was the site of their regular meetings for social justice, but that day they had set aside for a break. But every step he takes closer to the place, he feels a stronger and stronger sense of deja vu, like he'd done that before, only not as a college student, and not in this century. He thinks back to the dream he'd had earlier, the one he'd shared with R, and shakes his head. He's overthinking it.

He manages to convince himself of this until he sees his friend Eponine- a year younger than him, and frankly terrifying- cross the street in front of him. Immediately, a sense of dread fills his body, and in his mind's eye, he sees her fall to the ground, bleeding, as he watches helplessly.

Then he blinks, and the illusion is gone. Eponine's perfectly fine, alive, and in the present, looking at him with a slightly concerned expression. It must've just been stress, or the coffee, or lack of sleep. He proceeds in this line of thought until she meets her younger brother Gavroche at the street crossroads.

All of the sudden, he sees him surrounded by soldiers as he frantically scrambles across the ground. And just like before, the scene is gone a moment later. He, surprisingly, doesn't feel insane or scared, just... thankful that whatever happened wasn't happening now. Like he's soaking in the fact that they're safe.

He notices Jehan next- the student is hard to miss, with their long red hair and neon-colored 80's clothing- but he sees them shout something in French as a bullet goes through their head. But there's no bullet, and no blood. The moment's gone as soon as it comes. Bahorel walks alongside him, and Enjolras has to shake his head to clear the shadow of a bayonet piercing his side.

"Hey, earth to Enjolras," cuts a brisk voice. Feuilly. He whips around only to see him fall to the ground, bleeding- except he's not. "Hey, you seem distracted."

"Oh. I'm fine," he says, smiling. "Just... nice day. That's all."

"Okay, if you're sure," he responds, patting him on the back.

He sees Joly and Bossuet with their girlfriend Musichetta waving from the cafe window. For a moment, Musichetta's crying while Joly and Bossuet lie dead on the floor, but the image flickers and vanishes, replaced by Musichetta trying to piggyback both of them at once.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre, his best friends, walk over from the other side of the street (Courfeyrac yells in surprise as a bullet hits him in the arm; Ferre is stabbed with three separate bayonets), with Marius Pontmercy and his girlfriend Cosette in tow (Marius cries, cradling a broken arm and a torn lip, Cosette buries her face in her hands). 

When he reaches the front door of the cafe, he feels like a puzzle has come together in his mind. And when R jumps laughingly out from his hiding place behind the door to press a kiss to his face, he barely sees him fall to the ground after taking bullets meant for Enjolras. Instead, they hug and banter and call each other names, and make their way, together, into the Musain to order their share of pastries, teas, and 'unholy bean juice'.

It feels like coming home, which is funny, because he's never even lived there. And nothing's changed, everything looks and feels and smells the same, but somewhere deep inside of him, Enjolras comes to the realization that what's really changed is _him._

**Author's Note:**

> Team Enjolras
> 
> Prompt:  
> It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realized what’s changed is you. - F. Scott Fitzgerald


End file.
